Dead Bitch In A Bathtub Read online

  DEAD BITCH IN A BATHTUB

  ALAN SPENCER

  DEAD BITCH IN A BATHTUB

  The remote cabin was assaulted by blankets of hard hitting snow. Winter time in Estes Park, Colorado, was bitter as ever. But not as bitter as dying alone, as Brooke Lasker could tell you. She hated winter when she was alive, but being dead, the cold did her one favor. It staved off decomposition. Brooke's skin was the color of ice. The water in the bathtub she died in was nearly frozen. The heroin needle in her arm glittered with ice crystals. Her open eyes sparkled with frost.

  Brooke Lasker had been deceased for forty eight hours.

  But death wouldn't come.

  This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, she kept telling herself. What was a corpse to expect upon death? A trip into nothingness? Sleep? Oblivion? Darkness? Brooke anticipated a body bag for starters. Then a coroner's report. A death certificate hot off the presses. Funeral arrangements made by her sad, but not surprised sister, who thought the drugs would do her in any day. Whoever showed up to the funeral would try to remember Brooke fondly. They would talk about the best of Brooke Lasker. The sweet girl who loved to play acoustic guitar on the back porch, guzzle beer, smoke weed with her father, and one day started a band with her father and went on tour with their band Crash and Burn. The band was blue grass, country, rock, and beer bottle breaking attitude. The band had a minor hit. The song was self-titled "Crash and Burn" about someone who died of a heroin overdose. Ironic, she thought. The band toured nationwide. They opened for Bon Jovi and enjoyed a longer tour with Godsmack. Brooke was the white girl with the dreadlocks who played rhythm guitar. The hippie girl who didn't shave her armpits or legs. She wasn't a lesbian, even though she'd been called that her fair share of times. She didn't have boyfriends. She only met people, befriended them, and spread herself around. No commitments, please.

  What else would they talk about at her funeral? How Brooke was known for her in your face attitude. She punched out the guys in the smaller clubs who flipped her off or demanded her to show them her boobs, or better yet, her happy patch. She'd broken noses. Made people cough up blood. The worst thing she'd done, and she wasn't ashamed of it, was taking out her tampon on stage in a cracker jack blues club and hitting the pervert heckler in the forehead with it.

  Brooke wasn't sure how else they'd commiserate her death. Maybe they wouldn't talk about any of those things. Maybe they wouldn't talk at all. They'd just shake their heads at the girl who died so young.

  What other memories can you entertain yourself with, she thought. What else did a dead bitch in a fucking bathtub do with herself when she was supposed to be dead?

  She sensed her heart harden in her chest. The piece of meat was freezing. She was dead as the band Crash and Burn. Dead as her royalty checks. Dead as her ambition to kick heroin. Brooke Lasker was clinically dead.

  Dying was the easy part.

  Everything else afterwards was fucked up.

  DECOMPOSITION

  Everything in the bathroom was decomposing. The wood in the walls audibly contracted and split. It sounded like a cruise vessel taking on water. The floral print wallpaper with the words "HOME IS WHERE LOVE IS" painted by one of her sister's cheesy stencils cracked and withered to dust. Her sister was a hardcore Christian. There were more words on the walls in the other rooms mentioning God's love. More sappy shit about family and how important they were. Did one of those stenciled designs say "MY HOME IS WHERE MY SISTER OVERDOSED ON HEROIN."

  The huge ass Plasma television in the living room sank through the floor and crashed into the basement. She was planning on pawning that TV. She could get a hotel room. More heroin. Maybe try and hire back that private investigator. She'd need a lot more money for that.

  Oh Dad, whatever happened to you?

  The ceiling dissolved. Mold of all colors ate through it. Her bathwater changed into a murky brown color. Shrieking wintry gusts shattered weak panels. Parts of the roof were destroyed. Pink insulation was thrown up into the sky and never came back down. The bathwater crackled. Freezing harder.

  Outside, viewing it through the broken shards of the ceiling, the sky was depthless black. She could hear something mixed with the mean winter's gusts.

  Something like: Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.

  It sounded like a ghost who wanted to say "boo" and really scare somebody but had lost their ambition half-way, or they forgot why they were making the sounds in the first place.

  She heard people's names being called out. Brooke imagined hands being cupped to lips as somebody called out to their lost whatevers. Steve. Brian. Mandy. Eric. Justine. Brandy. Cameron. Hundreds of names. Nobody ever answered.

  Hours like this as a frozen bitch icicle, she started hearing more than names being called out on the air:

  —Why don't they just dig HERE?

  —Behind you, behind you, BE-HIND YOU YOU FUCKING BLIND FUCKING PEOPLE!

  —HU-MAN-I-TY!

  —The bottom, you haven't reached the bottom, so keep looking!

  —Keep looking!

  —HERE I AM! HERE I AM!

  —I am screaming so loud. Why can't you hear me?

  Brooke wanted to call out, so she did.

  —DID ANYBODY ELSE DIE IN A TUB? DID ANYBODY BUY MY SOLO ALBUM?

  Nope. Thought so.

  That silenced everybody. She only heard the wind. No moaning, calling out or nonsense questions. Bored with silence, she recalled her solo album. It was a year after her father dropped off of the face of the earth. Crash and Burn were still riding their one hit song. The last night she saw her father, they were opening for Aerosmith in Pittsburgh at some huge amphitheater. Then after their set, Sid walked backstage, left the building, and he was never seen again. They had to cancel shows. The band was in serious trouble without their front man. Their tour manager hired a private investigator. The investigator was a retired homicide cop named Roy Fisher. He was the caricature of a grizzled detective. He chewed an unlit cigar. He always had sad eyes, like he kept watching his life fall apart every day for his whole life and finally didn't care to do anything about it.

  Roy asked her personal questions. Some, Brooke could understand why he asked. Others, she thought he was just being another pervert fan.

  Was Sid a heavy drinker?

  Not any more than an average rock star living out his dream.

  Did Sid owe anybody money?

  We have money. If he owed somebody, he paid them back.

  Did Sid ever bother his ex-wife?

  No. They were on good terms.

  Did your dad, ever, you know, try anything funny with you?

  Like try to have sex with me, you mean? No! Fuck off.

  I meant nothing by that. I apologize. I have to look at this from all angles.

  I'm not giving you any masturbation material. I'm not your porn, asshole.

  Apologies, apologies, apologies.

  Then more questions.

  Was Sid into drugs?

  No. Okay, weed. But that doesn't count. Heroin later on. So yes. He was into drugs.

  Who is his dealer?

  Our tour agent.

  So you were both taking heroin?

  Sort of. Yes. Just not all the time. My dad more than me. He's old. Says he can't keep up with the hard touring. He says that's why Ozzy is the way he is these days. Drugs make you not feel so old.

  Has your father been acting funny lately?

  He's been very tired. But so am I. So is any band who plays the same damn set of songs every damn day and is stuck on a tour bus during their free time. Anybody would need a break.

  Roy asked more questions, but Brooke couldn't remember them so well. Everybody thought Sid would turn up. A week turned into two
weeks. Two weeks into a month. A month turned into a year. Sid was never found. Roy, the police, the national media, or anybody who cared enough about Crash and Burn to play up the story on TV couldn't figure it out either. Concern faded for Sid Lasker. Brooke stayed in Pittsburgh. She could afford a really cheap apartment and a new private investigator, one much younger and more motivated named Carson Black. He also turned up nothing. The case was cold as far as anyone was concerned. Sid's story was on one of those crime shows called "Solved or Unsolved?" Sid's case would fall into the "unsolved" category.

  She kept hiring people to investigate, but her funds ran short. She tried putting out a solo album, but the sales were poor, and the critics panned her. Many called her a tragedy whore and that her father was the real source of talent.

  Maybe they were right.

  They were right.

  It didn't mean her father didn't love her. And it didn't mean they didn't make good music together.

  Brooke hit rock bottom when she couldn't pay rent. She decided to drive to her sister's cabin, steal what she could, pawn it, and try finding another private eye. And heroin money.

  Overdose was the end of her life story.

  But her death story was about to begin.

  There was so much more to tell.

  The tub was completely iced over. The wood beneath the tub was giving fiber by fiber. It wasn't long before the tub crashed through the floor down into the basement.

  BROKEN TUB

  The tub shattered against the concrete. The frozen bath water broke into little pieces. Her body lay sprawled out on the concrete. Brooke's body seemed to wake up. She could move again. When Brooke stood up in the dark basement, she heard from outside:

  —Come on out, Brooke.

  —We know you're in there.

  —Let's see more of you.

  Let's see more of you. That's what her band agent said when they pointed her the way towards Hustler magazine. They said she didn't have to have sex with anybody. All she had to do was show her tits and be spread eagle a few times. She was broke at the time. Really broke. The private investigators were costing her serious money. The band money had dried up. So she did the smut shoot. Another reason why here holier-than-thou mother and sister had nothing to do with her. She was a slut on the greasy pages of a nudie magazine.

  —Come on, Brooke, let's see more of you. Show us everything.

  The words were spoken at the top of the stairs. Three heads were looking down at her. Maggot fleshed faces. Eyes sunken deep in their heads. Mouths wide open, showing off purple tongues that danced with beetles, mealworms, and maggots. The insects fell out of between each of their words. The three corpses were male. The age was impossible to tell. Most of their hair was gone, the scalp bared to the skull.

  —Open up your legs, honey.

  —Would've paid her good if she did re-al porn.

  —Slut can throw her tampon at me. I'd catch it with my mouth. I bet it'd taste soooo goooooood!

  —It's not like the bitch can sing.

  — (all three) Hahahahaha!!!

  The words were disgusting. What they did next was worse. The three men pulled down their pants and showed them their crotches. All they had left of their genitals was a concave maggot swimming pool.

  Brooke screamed. The corpses laughed in delight.

  "FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!" she screamed.

  They kept laughing, tormenting her with their beady eyes. They knew who she was and what she'd been. She was dead. They were dead. They were decomposing. She was on her way to decomposing. What did it mean? What the hell did it mean?

  —You can't stop us from doing what we want to you.

  —Everything you say is useless, bitch.

  —Better to come up here so we can see you better.

  —Yeah, it's so dark down there. We can't see all your pretty parts.

  She hadn't heard words so vile and evil before. She felt as helpless as trying to find her father. Fuck you was all she could say.

  —Women always expected me to eat them out. Bitch, it's your turn to eat me out. Lick out the maggots for me. Use that pretty tongue. You can't sing a tune, but you sure can do other things. Come on up, bitch, or should we come on down to you?

  —No way out, bitch.

  —Come on up, Brooke Lasker.

  —Show us a good time.

  —You're already naked.

  —We're all dead.

  —Come on up.

  —Or we come on down.

  —Bitch.

  —We've been dead a long time. We know how the dead can have fun. You'd be surprised all the fun things we can do to that little body of yours.

  —We have eternity to pass. So much time.

  —Play us a song, Brooke.

  —Sit on my face.

  —Will you give me an autograph?

  —Bitch.

  —You bitch.

  —You bitch!

  —Come on up!

  Brooke didn't know what to do. Afraid, tired of seeing their mouths talk as they coughed up more vermin (rats, and snakes, and plated insects!), and their sunken jelly eyes rape her with their intentions, Brooke curled up into a ball and prayed. Between her feet, a break in the foundation revealed black soil and the partial of a face looking up at her. It was a woman's face.

  —Why don't they ever look down here for me? Pull me free. Help me, please!

  Brooke tried to reach through the sizeable crack. Every time she gripped the woman's arm, the skin sloughed off. She dislocated the woman's shoulder. The clavicle bone shattered like glass. The buried victim screamed in shock, what broke her skull in two and out poured maggots that seemed to carry her face every which way across the floor. The three men up the stairs were enjoying the show. The names they called her. The things they said they'd do to her once they came down kept repeating in her mind long after the three owned up to their promise. They came down and brought her upstairs.

  OH WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH YOU?

  The three men dragged her into the garage. The table saw whet their interests. They had her by the arms and legs. She thrashed in their oily grips.

  —Our dicks might not work anymore, but there's other ways to get off.

  —Ooooooooh baby, yes, yes, yes!

  —Get off all over you.

  —I'm your biggest fan, Brooke.

  —I bet your daddy put the blocks to you real good.

  —Nasty bitch grew to like it. They all do if it's done right.

  Tongues crawled with crushed insects. They chewed on them and spit them out as they talked. Brooke could see parasites swim in their wet eye sockets. Tapeworms. Hookworms. Nasty, nasty things.

  People always said her father was "banging" her. It wasn't true. It pissed her off alive, and it pissed her off dead.

  Nothing she could do.

  Pinned down on the table, one of them turned on the table saw.

  —Cutting you open gets us off.

  —It's just like sex.

  —Seeing inside of you is as good as being inside of you!

  She screamed. Cried. Begged. Did everything a woman in distress could do.

  —I'm your daddy.

  —I'm your daddy.

  —I'm your daddy.

  "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" She tore her throat and spit out blood, how she screamed!

  Then there was a big BaBOOM! It sounded like a rifle going off. One of those old-time war rifles. One you had to fill with powder and buckshot.

  One of the corpses staggered backwards. Half his head was missing. The nose, one eye, and the back part of his skull was a leaking plaster bowl of filth. The other two corpses retreated out of the garage, leaving her there on the table.

  The damaged corpse—and what the hell had caused the damage was beyond her —rushed to follow its friends, fleeing in terror, and coughing up brains and blood.

  Brooke laid there on the table confused. Once she calmed, she still couldn't wrap her mind around what had just happened.
/>   She was too scared to leave the house. What was left of it. She waited for a time to make sure she was alone again. Sure she was safe for the moment, Brooke wanted to put on some clothes, so she went back into the house to do just that.

  WHO'S THAT HIDING OUT THERE?

  The only realistic thing she could do in her state was form a plan. First, she wanted to put on clothes. Those perverts didn't need any extra incentive to come after her. Naked was one of the strongest forms of helplessness. She crept through the house, watching her step. The floors and walls were missing large panels or about to crumble. Brooke managed to reach her sister's bedroom safely. There were pictures of Becky and her cheesy husband wearing matching outfits. The guy had his dick in a glass jar under the sink big time. They both met at some church retreat. 'Hey, I like God, do you like God? Let's fuck!' Or that's how she imagined her sister and husband hooking up.

  Brooke sorted through the closet and found a floral print dress. She put it on, then chose the winter coat to wear over it.

  She stopped. A face in the window was gawking at her. A woman with no lips. The rotting flesh at her cheeks writhed with maggots hanging by strands of meat gristle. One eye was shoved out so a collection of mice could scamper across her forehead and run down into the big hole in her chest to burrow.

  Brooke blurted out, "What do you want?"

  The woman didn't say anything, nor did she react. She kept standing there.

  "Who are you? Why are you here? What is going on? Do you know? Say something please."

  Her jaw unhinged for nor reason. It struck the glass window, then bounced to the ground outside. Out her throat, hordes of mice raced out as if her body was the sinking Titanic. The woman unraveled, coming undone chunk by chunk as if made of overcooked pottery in a kiln. The only thing left of her was two fetid hands clutching at the window, until the fingers unlocked themselves, and they too fell into the heaps of snow outside.

  The laughter of children could be heard in the hallway. Giddy laughter. A game was being played. Along the broken squares in the floor, tiny decayed hands clutched for grip. Doors slammed in other rooms. A new round of giggling. Why were these brats giggling?